


Seasons Change

by Fuzziestpuppy



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Drinking, Fluff and Smut, Grumpy!Pagan, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, WildAnimal!Ajay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 06:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15813039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzziestpuppy/pseuds/Fuzziestpuppy
Summary: What they have is a thing made strictly of night, and shadow, and quiet.





	Seasons Change

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little angsty, fluffy thing. All major main game spoilers apply.
> 
>  
> 
> The seasons change,  
> but the winter will crave what’s gone,  
> will crave what’s all gone away.
> 
> And I’ve been waiting on you,  
> I’ve been waiting for you.
> 
>  
> 
> Future Islands - Seasons

\-----------------------------

There’s something about the moonlight that draws him here, that brings him to Pagan’s balcony. The moon doesn’t have to be full, and Ajay doesn’t come on every moonlit night, but if it’s snowing and cloudy or if it’s a new moon or it sets very early in the evening, Pagan goes about his business as usual. But when his balcony is flooded with silver light, Pagan double-checks before he goes to bed. Makes sure the lock is undone, the deadbolt drawn back. Makes sure the gun from his bedside table is under his pillow, always wary of a trap.

Well, it _is_ a trap, he knows good and well that it is; it’s just not one that’s likely to kill him.

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

 

\------------------------------

 

Midwinter’s Eve, 2014

 

The first time Ajay came to his balcony he’d been reading in bed, tilting the book towards the wan lamplight, when he’d heard a sound like something brushing against the glass, something as light as a moth’s wings.

A moth, in the dead of winter.

Pagan had reached out calmly and turned off the lamp, had laid the book and his reading glasses aside, and just as calmly reached into the nightstand drawer for the gun there. He had brushed the alarm button built into the underside of the drawer, considered, and then withdrew his fingers. Gun in hand, he’d slid out from under the duvet and off the side of the bed onto his knees, watching, just watching. The moon was full and so bright, lighting the snow in diamond sparkles, and through the glass he could see a dark shape. A person shape, crouched. As he watched, the shape lifted its hand...Pagan had tensed...and rested fingertips on the glass. Left them there.

Still in silence.

Feeling like he was in a dream, Pagan had gotten up. He knew who it was. He didn’t know the why of it; hell, he still doesn’t really know _why,_ but he knew who and figured the chances of him dying that night were fairly low. He had walked to the glass door, gun held loosely in his hand. Ajay had straightened up then, and their eyes met through the frost on the glass. Dark, intense eyes had watched him like a wary animal. His wariness was actually disarming; Pagan knew then that if he moved too quickly or raised his voice too loudly Ajay would be back over the side of that balcony and away in a flash, never to darken his door again.

And...he found that he didn’t want that. Both of them wary, but curious, like when predators meet each other in the wild. Pagan watched him steadily. Had put his free hand up to the top of the door frame, to the armed switch that would trigger if the door were opened. A tiny threat.

_I could have every alarm in this place blaring, boy, if you’re fucking with me. If I smell a trap laid by your little monkey friends._

 

_But somehow, I don’t really think that’s what this is._

Ajay hadn’t moved, fingertips still resting lightly against the door. Still gazing into his eyes, Pagan had flipped the switch to off, reached down and undid the deadbolt...and opened the door for him.

He had come in accompanied by a blast of icy, snow-smelling air that had made Pagan flinch minutely when it hit his bare chest, skin pebbling. He stepped back to give the boy space and set the gun down on the dresser, had looked him over carefully. _Is he injured? Did he come to me in desperation?_ Neither of them had said a word yet.

He hadn’t seen any blood on him, but it was rather dark, even with the moon throwing light and shadow into the room, across the bed. But when he had moved to turn on a lamp, Ajay’s bare hand had touched down on his arm, his other hand had touched his belly, and Pagan had flinched away from him with narrowed eyes, suddenly aware that he was clad only in his underpants.

Not that he had really much cared, one way or the other; let the boy look his fill if he wanted, at his battered and scarred self, still broad-shouldered and strong but just beginning to edge out of his prime, to ache on cold mornings.

At that point, he still didn’t realize what was going on.

“Are you hurt?” he had asked, low and wary. He needed to know, if he didn’t want the light on for some reason. If Ajay didn’t want him to look at him.

“No, Pagan,” he had responded, and it was barely above a whisper, but it was warm, heated even. And Pagan had realized then, what this was.

Stood still for it this time, with an indrawn breath, and had let Ajay put those big warm hands on him. Had let him lean close, and press his lips to the center of his chest. The _why_ eluded him, but that didn’t really bear thinking about just at the moment. But when he lifted his own hands to put them on Ajay, he had melted into the shadows, leaving just the ghost of warmth against his skin. He had dropped his arms, a little surprised at the bereft feeling of this thing being taken away that he hadn’t asked for, had never anticipated happening, or even wanted.

Except, maybe he did want it, as Ajay’s hands had come back again, smoothing over his skin.

Those were part of the rules of this thing, then. No touching him. He wasn’t sure where to put his own hands, settled for tucking them behind his back, just to show he understood. As long as he didn’t try to harm him, then he would let Ajay do as he liked, he decided. Curious to see just how far he’d take it. How invested the boy was in this. How long he might have lain awake at night, and thought about him, and wanted.

That question of _why_ had bubbled up into his throat again and it almost escaped his mouth, but he had the feeling that the question would also have Ajay melting back into those soft shadows and out the door.

So he had let Ajay gently push him back onto the bed, had wanted to tangle his hands in his jacket but settled for handfuls of the bedclothes instead, as that hot mouth descended on the center of his chest again, his nipple (with a quiet but involuntary hiss from him), had dipped into his belly button. Ajay had slid his hands up under the legs of his underwear, up his thighs, stroking and gripping, and then his hot hands at the waistband, had slid them down enough for access. He had pushed up to help get them out of the way, wanted to watch…but kept his eyes averted, had sensed that perhaps looking was not allowed either.

He wasn’t achingly hard or anything, but maybe getting there as warm breath gusted across his balls, made his hands twitch. The tiniest touch of his warm wet tongue made him jerk a bit since he couldn’t anticipate what was coming, eyes studiously trained on the ceiling. And oh, he wanted to watch this…but he also certainly didn’t want it to stop.

Ajay took that opportunity to lazily run his tongue up the underside, from base to tip, and he couldn’t suppress the shiver that brought on. As that mouth descended on the head he had worried that this was going to be an embarrassingly short experience for all parties involved; he didn’t even _remember_ the last time someone had gone down on him. Hadn’t even bothered to touch himself in awhile, and Ajay…Ajay was decently good at it.

No, better than decent, he’d thought, as he had lain there and listened to the wet sounds his mouth made on him. Ajay took him in deeper, and forgetting himself Pagan had run his fingers into that thick dark hair…and suddenly Ajay was gone from under his hand that fast, a ghost, leaving him wet and chilled in the cold air.

Pagan had sighed, brought his hands up and rubbed his face hard in frustration. He’d fucked it up, just when things were getting good.

He had lain there for a bit and listened for the door, anticipating that icy blast of air from outside, contemplated whether he was going to finish himself off or just roll over and go to sleep when Ajay’s warmth was back against his legs and thighs without a sound, mouth back on him like it had never left, and that heat had made him groan. He was close enough that Pagan could smell him a little, his wild animal smell of forest and sweat and old blood.

Pagan himself was close enough to coming to stuff his own wrist into his mouth and bite down, both to muffle the embarrassing sounds this was trying to wrench out of him and to try to ground himself a bit with pain. But there was no holding it off, not now, and he had had to force out a warning.

“Ajay, better…better move, my boy…” He barely recognized his own voice.

Ajay’s answer to that was to slide his mouth all the way to the base and swallow around him and he came right then and there with a low panting groan, gasping, hands wadded in blankets and vision just whited out.

 

\--------------------------------

 

Pagan woke the next morning to brilliant sunlight pouring in the windows, diamond-edged and almost painful. It had been cold in the room, but he was warmly covered. It was Midwinter’s Day, and he was far too old to be having wet dreams, honestly, and about Ajay Ghale of all people. He’d ridden the boy around on his shoulders and made him snacks and tucked him in with bedtime stories, for fuck’s sake.

He had thought it was only a wet dream, recognized the boneless feeling in his limbs of a good, intense orgasm…but there was no evidence of it. He got up then, a little confused; underwear still on, no sticky wetness, sheets dry. And then he saw the gun sitting on the dresser. Blinked. Strode to the balcony door, saw the deadbolt pulled back, the alarm switch flipped to off. Mechanically, he had corrected those two breaches of security…and then spotted the footprints in the snow outside.

 

The immorality of the thing didn’t much trouble him; after all, on a scale of one to Paul’s little ‘parties,’ sleeping with your almost-but-not-quite-stepson had to rank at about a negative two. Or, at least, letting that almost stepson come in and do sexual things to him. He wouldn’t consider it ‘sleeping with’ himself, not until there was a little reciprocation. If there was to be another chance at it, that was.

 

He’d come back three nights later, and that time Pagan was waiting for him.

 

\-------------------------------

 

That was weeks ago, and it was hard for Pagan to not wonder how long this was going to go on. He certainly didn’t come every night, but it was at least a couple nights a week. They barely said anything, beyond the sounds that all lovers make in the dark. He would let Pagan push his luck though, just a little, each time he was there. Would let him rest his hands on his shoulders, would let him touch his hair, would let him _look_ at him without shying away.

The third time, he’d let Pagan put his arms around him for the briefest of moments as he was leaving, letting go almost immediately so he wouldn’t feel trapped. The fourth, he’d let Pagan undress him slowly and carefully. That was also the time that Ajay had raised his chin and offered his throat, a little heated challenge in his eyes. That was another gift.

_Maybe one day, I’ll give you everything._

Pagan had leaned in close and breathed in deeply, savoring, and then touched his open mouth down on his thrumming pulse. Ajay had shuddered under him. Touched his tongue to it, gently stroking, and bit down carefully, and Ajay had gasped and bucked up into him. Pagan had backed off then. That was enough. He knew better than to push too far. Wanted this too much to risk scaring him away.

The next night he’d showed up again, and had moved against him bare skin to bare skin for the first time, no cloth between them. He’d actually sought out his touch, pushed and rubbed and slid against him, allowed himself to thrust to completion in Pagan’s warm hand.

How long had it been since he’d touched someone with the intent of making them feel good, of giving them pleasure? Touching him reminded Pagan that he could do that, that he still had that ability; that his hands were not just for pain and killing. Ajay made his hands and body remember gentleness, and affection. It had been so many years.

Ajay might have still been skittish, but Pagan…Pagan was just about ready to give him _everything._

When he thought on that, he realized how neatly the trap was closing around him.

 

\--------------------------------

 

New Year’s Day, 2015

 

On New Year’s Eve, Pagan was well on his way to getting blind, staggering drunk, was watching the truly awful programs that they show before they drop that ball in New York. He had felt himself nodding off a bit, was thinking of heading to bed when he felt that wash of icy air. He’d almost forgotten to unlatch the door and disable the alarm. Almost.

As usual, Ajay said nothing, no greeting, no hello Pagan, how are you this evening? Would you like some company?

He really was rather drunk, and for some reason he was just a little embarrassed for Ajay to find him like this. He had imagined silent judgment from his dark corner of the room. It pissed him off a little, is what it did, so he had turned back to the television, where Ryan Seacrest was making an ass of himself, just like every year. Had taken another big swallow of scotch from his glass, even though he’d already had enough to feel like his legs were probably not going to work so well when he went to bed. Alone.

Happy couples kissing all over the television screen. He fucking _hated_ this day.

Ajay had moved then, deftly plucked the glass from his hand, set it on the coffee table. Had moved close and shifted into his lap then, a knee on either side of his thighs. Confused, Pagan had rested his own hands lightly, so lightly on his hips, reminded himself sternly not to grab at him as the ceiling gently spun over their heads. This was a new thing. Perhaps Ajay thought he could push a little himself, if Pagan was going to be too sloshed to remember it. Or something.

On the tail end of that dizzy and rambling thought, Ajay had bent down and _kissed_ him.

Oh, if he wasn’t good and drunk before, he was then, drunk on him when his soft lips had nudged his mouth, and his tongue had moved so gently against his, completely lost in the taste and smell of him.

Pagan couldn’t believe he what he had said then, he was sure he was going to break something, tip some scale too far in drunken stupidity, but the words had bubbled up and out of him anyway:

“Please stay.”

And Ajay did.

He was gone when Pagan had woken up with a horribly throbbing head the next morning, but he had been there with him when he had finally passed out, he remembered that. Ajay kissing him. Ajay’s warm weight against him in the night.

That trap, pinning him tighter.

 

\------------------------------

 

It was almost two weeks before Ajay came to him again.

He knew why; too busy wrecking his outposts with elephants, killing his soldiers, and doing all of the Golden Path’s dirty work for them. Literally, it seemed. When he finally showed up, he smelled _disgusting._ Pagan was used to his foresty, vaguely unwashed smell, which he didn’t mind. Actually rather liked, as a matter of fact, but this…he’d smelt of wet, rank animal pelts, or...something. Perhaps with a dash of innards. What the fuck had he been _doing?_

Pagan had immediately steered him towards the bathroom, had dug around in the bottom of his closet for a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, clean socks and underwear. When he had looked up, his arms full of clean clothes, Ajay had just been watching him from the bathroom door. Staring at him, thinking secret Ajay thoughts. It made him a tiny bit self-conscious as he dumped his load on the bed.

“Come with me,” Ajay had said, low and throaty and beautiful.

Pagan had, of course, his seldom-heard voice a siren song that had reeled him in. He’d gotten the tub started and carried Ajay’s disgustingly crusty clothes and sneakers between two fingers and dropped everything by the balcony door as soon as he’d gotten them off. He wished he could have had them cleaned, but not without rousing suspicion amongst the staff. That infernal green jacket was famous.

When he had gone back to the bathroom, Ajay was in the shower, quickly scrubbing off before getting in the big bath, something he thoroughly appreciated. They hadn’t bothered with the overhead light; just the little night light was plenty.

What they had might not bear up under a bright light anyway. It was a thing made strictly of night, and shadow, and quiet.

He had joined Pagan when he was done, had let out a soft sigh at the heat of the water, had sunk down to his neck. They were both up to their necks in suds, as a matter of fact. Ajay had shifted close to him then, barely pressed against his side with another tiny sigh. Had reached for his hand and entwined their fingers, which made Pagan’s heart turn over in his chest. The first time he had touched Pagan solely for comfort, a different kind of pleasure.

Dangerous, so _fucking_ dangerous. He should have pulled away, left him to it, gone to bed, see yourself out when you’re finished, my boy.

But he didn’t, of course.

Pagan had wanted to talk to him, so badly. Just have a conversation like normal fucking people. But what did they have to talk about? Ajay’s growing body count, and all the letters he has had to mail to grieving widows? The fact that he had been steadily undermining his own empire, the one that Pagan had been setting up to leave to him for months now? The Golden Path members that Pagan caught and had delivered up to Paul’s tender mercies? Amita? That little shit _Sabal?_

Perhaps something more along the lines of what are we doing? Where are we going with this? What _is_ this even? Do you know? Because I sure as fuck don’t. And what will happen when your new friends want you to kill me, _insist_ that you kill me? Because they will, darling boy, that day will come, and soon, soon you’ll have a choice to make. It may not even be hard for you to choose, one way or the other. I don’t know. The only thing that I know for sure is that it will be hard for me.

In the end, he’d kept his silence. Those were the rules. And there was really nothing to say after all, not really.

Ajay had let go of his hand and drifted over to the other side of the bath not long after that, and Pagan felt like he could get a full breath again. He was suddenly so, so tired.

When they had gotten out and dried off and were in the darkened bedroom again, Pagan had every intention of just going to sleep, Ajay or no Ajay. He could do as he liked, be it sleep here in the bed with him, or on the couch, or take off again into the moonlight, or go watch television in Pagan’s pajamas. Read a book. He really didn’t care. He’d been pretty much done with thinking at that point, and that Ajay-shaped trap was still twisting around him tighter, and tighter.

But that wasn’t what Ajay did. He didn’t do any of those things, those easy, simple things. Oh no.

What he’d done was climb on the bed, naked, gazing at Pagan over his shoulder…and lowered himself to all fours. Had spread his thighs. _God._ The blood had gone to his groin instantly, hot and heavy like molten gold.

That trap, tightening, would soon be too much to bear. Already too tight for him to just walk away, _damn_ the boy.

He…no, he’d decided right then and there. This wasn’t how things were going to go. No.

“No,” he’d said then, rustily, startling them both. He’d swallowed.

“No, boy…if we do this, I’m not fucking you. Not the first time, anyway. God help me. The first time, you’re doing the honors, or not at all.”

Pagan couldn’t afford to cause him pain, or frighten him, this skittish wild animal of his that drew close slowly, tentatively, and wanted. Wanted him. He couldn’t have borne it if him performing that act was the thing that pushed Ajay over his limit, never to return.

 

After that firm statement, he’d gone looking for the lube. Had slammed through drawers, rummaged through the medicine cabinet, getting progressively more and more pissed at himself. Angry at his essential fucking weakness, that he couldn’t put a stop to this, that he couldn’t _not_ do this, that his insides were an endless pool of heated _want want want,_ and he was not even all that sure that there was lube to find. It had been years and years since he was with anyone at all, decades since he’d been with a man, and he’d never been on the receiving end anyway.

Didn’t matter though. None of it mattered.

He was going to go back in there and spread his legs for that boy, apparently; no matter the cost, no matter how much it was going to hurt him in the end. Might as well stand and try to argue with a tidal wave. Perhaps Yuma was fucking right after all.

With a last angry slam of the medicine cabinet door, he had put his hands on the sink, hung his head, and just…tried to breathe. Steady, even breaths.

Hands on his shoulders then, making him start a little…Ajay had been ghost silent. His breath shuddered out of him.

“Hey,” he’d said then, pulling Pagan around. “Hey. We don’t have to. Don’t have to do anything.” And the concern in his face…Pagan moved then, without conscious thought, had Ajay’s face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across his cheekbones, the wings of his eyebrows, like they were precious. Like he was precious. Because he was. God help him…he was. Stubborn, wild, beautiful boy.

 _I am so fucked in every way,_ he had time to think, as his lips descended on Ajay’s like gravity.

Lost.

In the end they’d just used the bath oil, and in the end Ajay had taken him up against the tiled wall in the bathroom, neither of them willing to wait.

Pagan had whispered instructions: “Slow and easy, that’s right, just the one finger at first…yes, just like that.”

Ajay hadn’t said anything, but his touch had seemed a little hesitant, until Pagan started pushing back against his fingers, forcing himself to relax for it. It had felt…strange. Not really that good. But that hadn’t mattered, he was doing it anyway. That ball of raw need in him wasn’t going to be assuaged any other way, he’d suspected.

“Now get more oil, and add another finger. That’s right, now stretch it a bit…it’s all right boy, I promise you’re not hurting me. Stretch a little more. There you go. Deeper, you can go de…” He’d hissed involuntarily. Now _that_ had felt good, like a pleasurable shock. And of course, poor Ajay had frozen.

“No, that…do that _again,_ dearest boy. _Again._ ” And when he did, that sensation had Pagan writhing back into it, shuddering. He had wanted this because he wanted Ajay, but right then he wanted it because of that _feeling._ Wanted him inside, _now._ Suddenly craving it, didn’t care if it hurt. He was not above a bit of pain, to get what he wanted. His hardon had wilted a bit throughout that procedure, but now it was back, with a vengeance.

“Now, Ajay, _now._ Right fucking now…just, go slow,” he’d said, his voice gravelly.

Ajay didn’t have to be told twice. He was already oiled up and ready to go, and when he started to push into him…it had hurt. Burned, sharp and hot at first. He had ignored it, pushed back into it anyway, tried to relax. It hadn’t taken long for that pain to calm considerably, and once the head was past that tight ring, he was fine. From there it was just a slow, hot slide, only a tiny bit uncomfortable, and then Ajay was flush against him.

Ajay, shuddering against his back, trembling at the sensation of being buried to the hilt in him, arms around his chest. His chin hooked over his shoulder. Pagan had twisted a bit, kissed him warm and soft.

“You’re doing fine,” he’d whispered to Ajay, almost in his ear.

Lost, they had both been lost in it, in each other. Absolute and utter fools.

Pagan could feel Ajay’s every minute shift in him, wanted more. But before he could say so, could tell him it was okay to move, Ajay had whispered in his ear, low and hot and full of wonder.

“Pagan…I can feel your heart beating. Against my chest, and from the _inside._ It’s…” he didn’t seem to have words for whatever it was that he wanted to say. That had been just fine with him. When had they ever needed words?

Pagan had rocked back against him and then they had moved together, and…god, it had been so good. Pagan had planted his feet a little wider, propped himself against the tiled wall with his forearm and leaned forward so that he could rest his forehead against it, and that shifted them enough so that Ajay’s next stroke rubbed perfectly, deliciously against that place inside him, surprising a low moan out of him, eyes wide.

“Harder, that’s…please,” Pagan had murmured, “please…”

He had reached down with his other hand and moved with Ajay, thrusting into his own hand, already slick and dripping on the tile floor. The combination of those two sensations had him closing his eyes tightly, trying and mostly failing not to moan with how good it felt. He broke out in sweat all over, fever-warm.

Ajay had licked sweat from between his shoulder blades, moved up to the back of his neck and latched on there with his teeth, gentle...but possessive, at the same time. Claimed him. That was also completely fine with him, just as long as he didn’t _stop._ It was fucking wonderful, thought it couldn’t get better, the wave of his orgasm cresting so fast…and then Ajay’s hand was there too, tangling with his, lacing their fingers.

Oh god. Ajay had bitten down harder on the nape of his neck, which had sent a wave of sweaty hot-cold coursing over his entire body. Ajay had been tense and trembling with pleasure against his back; close, he could tell, had fucked into him hard, delightful, he himself was fucking into the tight slick tunnel of their entwined hands, also delightful, and that tension they had generated between them had rubbed and twisted and vibrated and climbed higher, and higher, and higher, and together they rode the crest of the wave that was about to crash down on them.

Ajay had wrapped his free arm around Pagan’s hips and thrust up into him hard, almost on his toes; once, twice, three times, a little erratic, and on that fourth he buried himself as deep as he would go and came with a _growl,_ his teeth still in the back of Pagan’s neck. He could _feel_ him throb and come hot inside of him, the pulses of it, Jesus Christ, and he had made a little twisting motion with their joined hands and rutted hard into them and that was all it took to push him over the edge too, that and Ajay still throbbing hot inside him. He came with a sob, head thrown back, all over their fingers and the wall and his own chest. Ajay latched onto the side of his throat instead, bit and sucked a little, had still been riding out his own orgasm, still coming deep inside him and and shuddering at the feeling of Pagan clenching around him, the two of them sharing those spasms of pleasure.

Pagan had leaned there against the cool tile, had willed his trembling legs to not dump him into the floor as Ajay had leaned against his back. He had _liked_ that, the sleepy, half-drugged feeling of coming together hard like that, Ajay still inside him, still connected that way. His heart beat slowly and contentedly. He didn’t want to move at all, felt like he could almost go to sleep standing up here with his head still pillowed against his forearm. The unexpected feeling of hot joy in his chest.

Ajay pulled away from his back, pulled out of him.

Pagan had missed it right away, missed Ajay's sweaty heat against him, oil and his come running down the insides of his thighs. He tried to put a finger on the other thing it was that he felt, and decided it was something like longing. Missing _him_ already, missing that connection.

And that had made the hot anger at himself boil up in his chest again, warring with that joy, mixing bittersweet. Fucking pitiful. Still standing there, leaning against the tiles, he had brought his other arm up and fisted it into the wall, grinding the knuckles, a little grounding pain. What he had wanted to do was drive his fist right through the tile, but he was too old and too canny to break his own hand in rage. He settled for this small pain.

Pagan should have known this would happen. Perhaps some part of him had known, but he had taken it anyway. Ajay being here with him like this had been a gift, a precious gift that reminded him that he still had a heart left, that his hands and body could give someone pleasure, could be gentle, that he was even still capable of it. He’d wondered sometimes.

That was the gift that Ajay had given him, like meat given to a starving man, and what right did he have to complain that it had a sharp bone hidden inside that hurt him, that made his mouth bleed?

Hands were on his waist, had turned him around.

Whatever Ajay saw in his face seemed to worry him a little, his eyes softening, and then he had moved into his chest. Kissed him, soft and sweet, and had put his arms around him and tucked his shaggy head against his neck and held him. And he hadn’t known what to do with that except put his arms around him too, holding and held, like a goddamned fool that liked the taste of his own blood, apparently.

Later, after they had washed up again and Pagan had staggered back to bed (it had been three in the morning by that point), Ajay had climbed into the bed with him, had showed every indication he was staying. Fine by him. Better than fine, since he was warm and velvety-feeling against him and smelled like Pagan’s soap and his own clean skin. He’d worry about things in the morning, when he woke up alone and could think.

 

\--------------------------------

 

Pagan did not, in fact, wake up alone in the morning. He woke to broad daylight at ten, having to piss like nothing else. His ass was sore, but his bladder had hurt worse and he was focused only on that, had gone and taken care of business and washed his hands and was coming back…and stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of that shaggy black head on the other pillow. Fuck. Someone was going to _catch him here._

“Ajay… _Ajay,_ ” he’d said, low and urgent, still not a stitch on. The boy must have been as exhausted as he was, as Pagan had to actually shake him a bit to get him awake. _He feels safe here, knows it’s okay to let go and sleep deeply here with you,_ and he’d studiously shoved that thought down with a grimace.

Ajay had sat up then, pawing groggily at his face…and stopped dead at the sight of Pagan naked in full sunlight. That was the first time he’d actually been able to see him well. Pagan, just a little self-conscious, had wished he had remembered to put some clothes on before waking him up. But apparently Ajay had liked what he saw, as he had gotten up and reached and ran his hands down his bare chest. Pagan had sighed.

“Ajay, dearest, that’s very flattering but you have to _go._ Next time, I promise, you can touch me and run your hands all over me as much as you like. Now _please,_ go get your clothes on.” Pagan had never anticipated being in the position of actually having to shoo him off. He grabbed his robe from the dresser and threw it on. Ajay snagged his nasty clothes from the floor…and then stopped.

Went back to the foot of the bed, where the clean clothes that Pagan had fetched for him were still lying. He had pulled on everything except the pajama bottoms, rubbed his hand over the soft fabric of Pagan’s t-shirt and smiled a little. Climbed back into that awful jacket, those crusty denims that could possibly stand on their own, had rolled his own dirty t-shirt and underthings up and shoved them into his pack.

Ajay had his hand on the balcony door’s latch, ready to leave…and then had looked back at Pagan. His eyes had been sparkling, joyful, warm; a little smile curling his lips. For him. Pagan’s heart had lurched in his chest. He had wondered what his own face was saying. Ajay had smiled a bit wider at whatever he saw there, and then was off, out the door and up and over the balcony rail and dropping down almost in one smooth movement.

Pagan had worried a bit about his patrols spotting him, but if anybody could get past them, it would be Ajay. He stood there for a long time, eyes following the darting path he had taken across the grounds and into the forest.

He had sworn and rubbed his hands over his face as a thought occurred to him. He needed to go and scrub the come off of the bathroom walls and floor before some hapless member of the housekeeping staff spotted it.

That had occupied him for a bit, and he did everything he could that day to distract himself from that anxious feeling that fate was bearing down on them.

 

Not long, now.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

March, 2015

 

A lot has happened since that day; Yuma, mainly. Durgesh, and the two of them having to play their little roles, him trying to quell that ache in his chest at seeing him again, his hand on Ajay’s arm probably lingering overlong. Yuma had made him choose, and she had always thought she had known him oh so very well.

That was weeks ago, as winter slowly gives way to spring.

He shouldn’t have made that promise to Ajay, that he could run his hands over him as much as he liked the next time. Thoughtless. He knows better, than to assume at any point that they will ever get a next time.

Ajay’s been a busy fellow and has thinned the ranks considerably. With Yuma out of the way that just leaves him; him and Amita and Sabal. And Ajay himself. Always Ajay.

Lying in bed with the gun under his pillow, the door optimistically unlocked, he wonders which of the two is going to break first and plead with Ajay to murder the other. For Ajay’s sake, he does hope that it’s Amita. She can at least be reasoned with, appealed to with logic. Sabal is _dangerous,_ like Mohan was dangerous. The boy might not sense that betrayal until it’s much too late.  He sighs. He has to stop worrying about Ajay. No matter what happens, what Ajay chooses to do, his own part in this bitter little drama is almost at an end. The Villain exits stage right.

All that’s left is for Ajay to march in here, in broad daylight this time, at the head of an army of people very willing to kill him, and either sit and have dinner with him, or not, hear him out about the things he needs to know about their family, or not, and then him and Gary will enact the contingency plan and get the _fuck_ out of this country…or not.

A month ago, after that night they spent together, he may have been a little more sure of the outcome of this meeting.

But he’s not so sure of anything anymore.

Pagan drifts off into a thin and uneasy sleep, dreams of blood running across the big dining table downstairs, dreams of Ajay wanting to touch him again, run his hands all over him…but they’re covered in blood, blood up to his elbows.

He jerks himself half awake after that one, still groggy and disoriented, just as he feels the bedspread lift, chill air touching him. He stiffens, hand under the pillow before he’s really all the way awake, but then Ajay is there, sliding in beside him and so warm against him, and he relaxes. He’s clad only in his underwear, and Pagan hisses a little at how good his skin feels against his own, how _right._ Ajay moves against him, gets his arm around his neck, half on top of him, kisses him. It’s not a passionate kiss, just…a hello kind of kiss. Soft and warm. A sorry I haven’t been around, apologetic sort of kiss. Pagan’s arms come up around him. He’s pressed so close that he can feel his heart thudding against his own.

They lay there, in the quiet dark, just holding, his hands stroking Ajay’s back.

 

In here, there are no games, no lies. Ajay isn’t forced into the role of the dashing young hero, the legendary Son of Mohan, a role that ill-suits him. He himself isn’t forced into the role of the diabolical, mustache-twirling villain, also a role that ill-suits. He was never ever Ajay’s enemy. Never really the Golden Path’s enemy, either, except that they insisted on shoving him into that role. It would be hard for Amita and Sabal to keep any power at all, without him as the monster, the demon, to rally their followers against. Mohan was his only enemy, and he’s been in the ground for twenty-five years.

In here, there’s just the two of them, all of that baggage left behind in the waking world. This place, here and now, that they’ve carved out for themselves.

But it’s shattering.

Ajay stirs against him, nuzzles into his neck, against his face. Rubs his nose against Pagan’s earlobe. And whispers a word, a tiny ache in his voice.

“Tomorrow.”

And Pagan closes his eyes. He wants to boot Ajay out of his bed right then and there, if only to put a little space between them, some buffer between what they have now and whatever tomorrow will bring. His death, or his banishment. He's always known; they've both always known this day was coming. And now it's here.

But of course he's weak and pathetic and so he holds Ajay close, there in the dark, wanting comfort from the agent of his own demise. Wanting to _comfort_ the agent of his own demise, a goddamn fool with blood welling in his mouth.

He grits his teeth. Refuses to cry.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Pagan holds a meeting of the entire household the next morning, genuinely thanks them for their diligent service over the years. Bows, shakes hands all around, suffers the occasional kiss on the cheek with dignity. Sends them all home, hopefully ahead of the terrorists. He worries about that, that they’ll get caught in the crossfire. He also doesn’t put it past those imbeciles to just gun them all down, if they stay up here with him.

The one small suitcase of things he’s taking with him has already been packed and is in the helicopter, Gary waiting on standby. A little after noon he makes one last walkthrough of his suite, just to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything important, but then he finds himself staring at the bed, still unmade.

And because he’s still weak and pathetic and that trap feels like it’s squeezing his heart so tightly that it physically hurts, might as well make it hurt a little more…he leans down and closes his eyes and inhales Ajay’s scent from the pillow. Buries his face in it.

After that moment of rankest stupidity, he decides to go start cooking dinner.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

The crab rangoon is a lousy joke that nobody ever even got, but why not tell it again, one last fucking time? He almost burns it because he’s been drinking pretty steadily since he came down to the kitchens, but manages to rescue it in time. Not that it really matters.

While things are simmering, he goes into the dining room and does a couple of lines off the bar, why the hell not, and records the automated message that’s set to play after he’s gone. One way or the other. Doesn’t give a rat’s ass that he’s drunk and coked up for the last recording he’ll ever make as the King, the end of an era, an almost thirty year reign…he’s so done with this bullshit. There was absolutely _no bloody way_ he was going to go through this travesty cold sober.

He laughs though, at the idea of Ajay ditching him at a dinner party. Even has a good chuckle at the idea of him pulling out that big 1911 of his and ditching his gray matter out of the back of his head, all over the walls. It’s all just so goddamn _funny._

The funniest part is that he probably deserves it. And then the poor boy standing there confused, holding Ishwari’s urn with no _fucking_ clue what to do with it, such an amusing mental picture, thinking of the lost look on his face because they’ve never talked about that, they’ve never talked about anything of consequence, no chance to, no chances for them, not ever…no chance at all for whatever it is they have, this thing between them.

Pagan thinks then of the two of them, entwined in the dark, quiet and warm.

He sends the bottle of brandy flying across the kitchen, snarling, his vision suddenly washing red with absolute raw fury. He grabs the big knife he’s been using and slams it down into the butcher’s block again and again with all of the considerable force in his arm, considers slamming it into himself and ending this fucking farce early and saving everyone the trouble.

It would probably hurt less than this.

Instead, he sends the knife sailing across the big kitchen with a bellowed roar that barely sounds human, sends a couple of saucepans after it, just for good measure.

Time has a way of wearing the sharp edges off of pain, but this…this might hurt worse than Ishwari. She’d merely left him.

Nothing, _nothing_ hurt as much as his baby girl, though. He lived through that. He’ll live through this too.

He laughs then, dark, so dark. Perhaps he’ll live through it. We’ll see, won’t we?

Not too long now.

The combination of blistering rage and the cocaine has his blood pressure skyrocketing, a dull throbbing pain in his temples. He sighs, makes himself go get some water and calm down and stop being so fucking melodramatic. Quiet, quiet, just breathe.

Then he heaves another long-suffering sigh. He has to go fetch one of the saucepans from across the room because he forgot, he still needs one for the vegetables and he should get them started.

 

\------------------------------

 

Ajay had just…kicked the fucking door in, half tearing it off its hinges. Not the most auspicious beginning, but it’s his door now, they all are and he can kick as many as he likes. The gun waving around in his general direction is more concerning, but he forces the shake from his hands and pours the drinks. Now that he’s finally here, he feels a sense of fatalistic calm, which is much preferable to the bellowing rage. Or fear. Nothing is going to unwind that knot from his chest though, from around his trapped and pounding heart.

And god, it’s good to see him again all the same, so good. He’s thought about what he was going to say in this moment so many times that it’s like he’s on autopilot, delivering the lines he’s supposed to, playing the part he’s been assigned. It’s like they’re trapped in a terrible play, some shoddy, two-bit production of their pathetic lives. He plays his part and Ajay…Ajay plays his. And they’re going to play it out to the end.

All the while he’s looking, memorizing. Wishing he could run his thumbs across his cheekbones, touch his lips to his one more time.

One last time.

If he begs, he wonders if Ajay might let him do that, wonders if he’d consider letting him get on his knees and blow him right here against the table. He could shoot him after that, if he feels the need. That would be all right. That awful, unfunny laughter is threatening to bubble up in his throat, and he shoves it down by cutting his meat and taking a bite.

Pagan doesn’t taste it at all, and it might as well have been wet cardboard in his mouth as Ajay takes aim at his head, finger tightening on the trigger. He refuses to close his eyes, refuses to flinch from him. He wants Ajay’s face, his warm brown eyes to be the last thing that he sees, even though they are remote, completely expressionless. And he does have some fucking dignity left, after all. Not much, but some.

He chews, watches, while Ajay’s finger is tight, tight on that trigger, the black maw of the bore huge in this light, like an accusing eye.

Sometime in the recent past, Ajay had grabbed a handful of .45 ammo from a box somewhere and reloaded his magazines, his fingers nimble and sure, and loaded this particular, fated bullet, the one that carries his death on the tip of it, destined to enter his brain at high velocity and out the other side. That very bullet, and no other. Made for him, and no other. His thoughts are racing in small, nonsensical circles.

Pagan chews some more, but that bite refuses to go down, the muscles in his throat quivering in rebellion.

Funny how five seconds can feel like an absolute eternity.

When Ajay finally lowers the gun, removing that staring black eye…suddenly he can swallow. It actually tastes fairly decent. Could use a little salt, he didn’t use enough in the marinade. He cuts another bite.

“So,” he says then, extremely surprised at how _normal_ he sounds.  “Who did you kill?”

 

\-----------------------------

 

In the end, Pagan gives Ajay everything that he has to give; a nation, a throne, dinner, himself.

The truth.

They walk through the courtyard slowly, and Pagan tells him everything about their ill-fated family, his history. Opens the door to their family shrine for him.

The sight of Lakshmana’s picture, Ajay standing there with Ishwari’s urn…there’s no place for him here, not anymore. If there ever was. He’s fulfilled his purpose in this. He closes the door gently behind Ajay.

Between them.

 

\------------------------------

 

Gary was just waiting on his signal to start the big helicopter, all the pre-flight checks done hours ago. Pagan feels achingly heavy, like gravity is pulling on him more than usual, but when he makes the big step up into the passenger compartment he does it easily, like always, grabbing the handle and swinging up.

The reappearance of Ajay is a surprise, though. He figured he would be longer about it, that he might have wanted to do a bit of mourning or contemplation or something. But here he is again, like he was drawn by the sound of the rotor spinning up. Gary was in the middle of takeoff but Pagan gives him the ‘wait’ signal and he stops then, holding them steady ten feet off the ground or so, and he braces himself in the doorway.

Pagan guesses he didn’t give him _everything._ This fine helicopter is his, after all.

“All choices have consequences, Ajay!” He has to yell a little to be heard. He wants Ajay to remember that more than anything else, even as the years go by and the boy forgets all about him…if nothing else, he wants him to remember that one piece of advice.

“I’ve given you Kyrat, but I’m keeping the helicop…”

Ajay chooses that moment to sprint full speed at him. Pagan steps back in confusion as Ajay leaps and flings himself at the doorway of the compartment, gloved fingers gripping the edge, watches in amazement as he hooks a leg up and scrambles in fairly easily.

“Boy, what ar…” and then his mouth is on his, hot and overwhelming and it creates a sudden jolt of heat that starts down low in his belly and then spreads through him, a shockingly warm flush. Ajay’s ripping his gloves off so he can get his bare hands on Pagan’s face, brushing over his cheeks, his throat, his nape. He may or may not have made an embarrassing groaning sound into Ajay’s mouth at the feel of his tongue against his own. The heat of that kiss makes the tight, trapped feeling in his chest unravel a bit.

As absolutely _wonderful_ as that feeling is, Pagan has to pull back a little, suddenly remembering that Gary is patiently keeping them hovering ten feet off the ground and that the risk of two complete and utter fools swooning over each other and falling out of the fucking thing is pretty high. So he signals Gary to set them down again.

As soon as they’re safely on the ground, Ajay pulls him in again, and this time his kiss is gentle, so gentle, like an apology, perhaps for the gun business, like…

God help him for even thinking it, he’s _insane_ to think it, has utterly lost his mind…

...like maybe Ajay loves him a little.

Ajay had taken his face between his hands then, solemn and serious.

“Please stay,” was what he said, out there in the bright light of an early spring afternoon.

And Pagan did.

Perhaps what they have can bear the light after all.

 

End


End file.
